


palisades

by tsariitsa



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: M/M, probably going to be a bit of a slowburn, the usual, tim and jason engage in various shenanigans and deny that they may not despise each other's company
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-12 23:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11747496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsariitsa/pseuds/tsariitsa
Summary: Things Tim Drake Probably Shouldn't Have Done, Now That He Looks Back On It:1. Chased a violent suspect without backup.2. Allowed himself to be pummeled by aforementioned violent suspect.3. Allowed himself to be rescued by another type of violent suspect altogether.4. Let his guard down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> uh so this was supposed to be one longass fic, but i'm taking forever to finish it, so i'm going to dump it in chapters as i go along. i probably would've abandoned it altogether, but i've really been trying to get back into writing as hardcore as i used to, so let's pray this won't be the last you hear of me! 
> 
> happy reading, friends!

In hindsight, Tim decides that his life would have definitely taken a turn for the better if he had simply taken some extra time to look into that weird call instead of diving headfirst into the whole situation.

_Psycho killer, qu’est ce que c’est…_

Not the best thing to be stuck in his head right now.

He ducks, turns a sharp corner left, and then right. He barely manages to avoid falling on his face, latching onto the wall next to him, his feet scrambling on the slick pavement. The rain had long soaked through his suit, and it clings to him like an uncomfortably thick second skin, coiling itself around his knees in a way that makes each fucking step a chore. The rain was warm and heavy on his face.

Today is anything but his day.

_Don’t touch me, I’m a real live wire._

He tells himself that it could be worse. After all, he’s been chased by mad people before. He’s made countless enemies. This is no strange scenario to him. But he’s so _tired_ and he just wants to head to the local deli and grab a cold-cut-extra-mayo-hold-the-pickles sandwich and fall asleep with the television buzzing and a blanket around his shoulders. God, blankets. _What do they feel like again? It’s been years since I felt warmth, years since I felt love…_

He tells himself to get it together and pushes forward. This burst of motivation could not have come at a more inopportune time, because something crashes into him, sending him sprawling forward. He falls on his stomach, gasping as his breath escapes him. _Fuck._ He jabs his elbow upward, head reeling and mouth stinging. He tastes metal and there’s a weight on his back, holding him down and preventing his lungs from doing that thing that he really needs. He swallows, wrenching and managing to free his legs from under the creature/person/nuisance.

_Ba ba ba ba, ba ba ba ba ba!_

The next few things happen too quickly for him to take in as anything but one fucked up event:

  1. Something sharp stabs into his side and the pain is so explosive and white-hot he bites his tongue to keep from screaming.
  2. He imagines Bruce receiving news of his death and is really pissed it couldn’t have been at least a little bit cool.
  3. There’s a ringing in his ears.
  4. The rain is getting into his eyes, making everything blurry. It stings.
  5. Something is yelling distantly, like he’s underwater.
  6. Everything goes quiet.
  7. Everything goes black.



* * *

In the movies, when Tom Hardy/Cruise/Hanks wake up in an unfamiliar place, there’s usually a moment of confusion where they sleepily blink and murmur, “Where am I?” to which a pretty-but-unassuming brunette will shush them and place a towel soaked in hot water on their forehead. Cue mellow piano track. Cue meaningful glances.

But Tim doesn’t get any of that, oh no. Tim gets an instantly anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if there's something in his gut with claws ready to tear through his flesh to _get out, get out._ He looks around to see that he’s in some sort of warehouse, all open space and shitty interior design, with a twin-sized mattress and a skimpy blanket in one corner, and a worn down coffee table in another. He thinks he spots a door out of the corner of his eye, but that’s all, save for a huge pile of crates and a set of display monitors on top of said crates. No cute brunette. No hot water towel (which is bullshit, anyways).

He chooses this moment to shoot up in the bed – nope, not bed, fucking _sleeping bag,_ because the universe has apparently decided his luck was beyond comfort of any kind – and instantly regrets it, as his left side erupts in little throbs shooting up his ribcage, making him wince. His hands curl into fists. Jesus.

On the list of Worst Days of His Life, this definitely falls into the top five. Tim would even go as far as to claim that it pushes asking Jennifer Sully out to the Snowball Dance in fifth grade (only to have her laugh at him and spread a rumor that she had seen him make out with a textbook and his whole class believed it and he spent the rest of the day hiding in the bathroom until a teacher had _finally_ called his dad to take his pathetic ass home) out of the ranking, earning it spot number 2. But would he agree to relive his mother’s funeral, with random people he had never met before tossing casseroles and condolences and perfumed hugs his way? Nah. He’s good there.

 _Focus, Drake._ He decides to give sitting up another try, pushing himself up onto his elbows and then his hands, gritting his teeth all the while. He can already feel a migraine sprouting somewhere in his head. He could really go for a cup of coffee right now. Or Adderall. Whatever comes first.

Something shifts by the crates, and he freezes. He had been so occupied with trying not to think about the pain, it hadn’t occurred to him that perhaps whoever – whatever – had brought him here might not want him to leave. The thought brings a chill up his spine and a little boost to his blossoming headache. He hopes to god it’s a pretty brunette. Hell, he’d take a blonde, or a cute little old man, or literally anyone besides Two-Face or Riddler or anyone who might want him to move immediately.

He swallows, right hand crawling over the hard floor to try and find a weapon. It hits him then that he’s not in his suit, but a too-large Guns ‘n’ Roses t-shirt and grey sweatpants.

Looking back, that should have been a dead giveaway.

The panic is getting comfortable when a voice calls to him from somewhere near the crates, all deep and raspy, “Relax.”

_Oh, man._

“Todd?” Tim’s jaw almost falls off his face, and he can’t tell whether to be relieved or even more freaked out. He wakes up in a warehouse alone with Jason Todd, and still has all his ribs? This is a new high for him. Maybe this day could reach a mere spot number 3 (fuck you, Gotham Zoo, and the freaky monkeys with big noses and shiny pink butts that made Tim, at the tender age of seven, throw up all over a middle-aged lady) yet!

“Bingo. And here I thought they called you the fucking _Detective Robin_ for shits and gigs.” He says _Detective Robin_ like most people would say _flesh-eating disease_ or _moist_ _._ Tim hears some more shifting, and then the Red Hood himself, in all his glowering glory and overall grumpiness. He wants to laugh. Grumpy. Like a cat meme or an old man shaking his fist at the _whipper snappers on his damn lawn!_ Not, you know, a mass murderer.

Tim steels his shoulders the best he can, which is not his best at all. “Listen, I don’t want to fight.” _Not now. Give me, like, a week. Two, maybe._

Jason laughs condescendingly. He lifts the helmet off his face, his dark hair sticking up at an angle that would have been comical if he wasn’t totally fucking scary. Oh, and the white stripe. Is that new? It might be new. New scars, criss-crossing over his face and neck like patchwork. New shock of snow in his hair. New Jason Todd.

“You don’t look like you’re in the position to fight anyone anytime soon.” His voice is clearer without the helmet.

“Yeah.” Tim swallows. “So, uh … let’s not do that.”

“No shit.”

“What are you doing here anyways?”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Don’t be so rude, Detective. I’m staying here.”

“I’m at your _safehouse_?” Tim splutters. This is the last place he’d expect to be in one piece. Every time Dick or Bruce had compromised one of his numerous warehouses, a news story would pop up about the plot having strangely been set on fire, the death of a beloved abandoned building lost to arson punctuated by the clear message that Jason Todd did not want to be found.

So what the fuck.

“You’re on a roll there, Chief.”

“I don’t get it. Why … how…” The pieces are spinning in his head, arranging themselves in various which ways. Finally, something clicks into place, and the finished picture makes him want to die.

“You saved me?”

Jason snorts. “As if.”

“Then … what happened to that guy?”

“What guy?”

“That guy … that guy chasing me from earlier?” Tim knows his description is less-than-stellar, but he doesn’t really know much about the guy besides the fact that he had been wearing all black clothing, had – likely – made the anonymous threat against his father, and had a burning desire to chase a certain Drake through the damp alleyways of Gotham.

Jason shrugs. “Hell if I know. I just saw him stab you real good in the side and take off.” But the way he says it – all tight shoulders and averted eyes – he might as well have just come out and said, _“Oh, yeah, I killed him. I killed him a lot.”_

“Jason,” Tim says quietly, but firmly. “You weren’t … you can’t just—“

“Oh, save me the fucking lecture, _Bruce_ ,” Jason spits out. “Here, I’ll make it easier on that fragile conscience of yours: he was a piece of shit. He put his scummy hands all over a six year old. You want to go up to her parents and explain to her why _I can’t just_?”

“I didn’t ask you to do shit.” He forgets for the moment the vulnerability of his current position. If Jason is going to come at him, he’s got his fists raised.

Jason stares at him for a second, a mixture of disgust and pity on his face. He lifts his head, glowering at him through icy eyes. “Fine, then,” he says, jutting his chin in the direction of the door. “Go.”

_Oh._

Tim looks away, partly because this is the worst day of his life, partly because the words _six year old_ had raised a disgusted feeling in him, and partly because Jason is really good at glaring at people.

But his body obviously cannot be bothered to listen to his brain (always such a nuisance), because his latest attempt at standing only causes him to stumble and hold back a string of curse words at the jolts of pain shooting up his side. He then falls. He doesn’t just fall, though. He falls flat on his ass, like a confused child, staring up at Jason with his shoulders slumped.

Jason makes a _ttch_ sound, like a disappointed French grandmother, and grabs a duffel bag from behind the crates. As he makes his way towards the door, he calls over his shoulder, “You’re a fucking idiot, Drake.”

Tim doesn’t have the energy to protest.

* * *

He sits for a while, running over things with his usual rapid-fire process, where his brain is one step ahead of him every time. It’s never boded well for him.

 _So you’re just going to stay here?_ His Brain asks incredulously.

_I mean, what else do you want me to do? I can’t leave yet._

_Why not?_

_…I physically can’t._

_Huh. Feel familiar? Like, oh, I don’t know, that night on the Titan Tower?_

_Shut up._

_Just saying. That was pretty shitty, wasn’t it? Who knows what it’ll take to spark Jason into throwing a few more punches?_

_Shut_ up. _I know._

_So? Go._

_Fuck._

_Go._

Tim lifts his chin, inhaling deeply. It’s now or never. He snaps one hand up against the wall next to him for balance, and forces his legs to stop screaming and start working. He manages to heave his way onto his feet. And voila! He doesn’t fall! He would grin, but then he might actually pass out.

Step two: getting somewhere significant.

Jason’s laptops glow from near the crates. He hadn’t bothered to hide them, or even shut off the screens. He can see from here that most of them have been tapped into cameras around the city. A few strides closer, and he notices that the wall behind the crates is peppered with photographs stuck on with masking tape. They feature different faces, some obviously taken from far away, some mugshots, and some with small descriptions and coordinates next to them. A few are crossed out, X’s over their faces in black Sharpie.

 **Sunday mornings at Sun Café,** next to a middle-aged man with a dark beard.

 **See Joe,** skinny guy with freckles all over his face and a golden tooth.

 **Fuck him up bad,** short man in a suit.

Jason’s got the whole stereotype of an obsessive TV detective down pat. More Dexter than Sherlock, though. Tim briefly wonders if he would be Sherlock.

He turns his attention to the laptops themselves. He recalls memories of his first weeks as a Robin (past all the strenuous training and the trying to read Bruce and the wondering how Hannah Montana handled a double life), and doing exactly this, sitting in a darkened room, pouring over hours and hours of security footage, searching for that one detail that would click into place. He had always been good at that. Even after two all-nighters, running on three cups of coffee and two Red Bulls, Tim could always find something.

The only difference is that, afterwards, he wouldn’t just grab a gun and set out. _No,_ Tim thinks. _I can slow down. I’m not a goddamn forest fire._

Pushing past the pain is getting to him. He catches his breathing getting more shallow, and settles on a lone crate, focusing on deep breaths. If standing for a mere ten minutes causes him to respond like this, it’ll be some time before he can get back to his life. He doesn’t think Jason has any schemes to cut his limbs off and feed them to gators, but he also doesn’t think he’ll be welcome here for _some time._ He doesn’t even know where he is, but he’s willing to bet it’s near the outskirts of Gotham, perhaps closer to Delaware Bay. After all, he’d abandoned every other possible safehouse location anywhere near the main part of the city. What was left?

What to do, what to do. He can’t tell Bruce. Or Dick (who’s not even in Gotham at the moment). Or anyone, for that matter. Well, he can, but he won’t. He owes Jason that much, he figures, for saving his life and all. Just a little unnecessary hindrance he can avoid, no big deal. Besides, calling those two would make him feel juvenile, like a teenager calling a parent to pick them up from the mall because they spent their bus money on bubble tea.

 _Parent._ Tim feels around in his pocket for his phone. He can already feel another onset of anxiety approaching at the thought of his father stressing about his absence. His dad worries enough. He doesn’t need to ponder about Tim’s every prolonged disappearance as well.

He finds his phone, but it’s dead. “ _Fuck._ ” He makes a mental note to ask Jason for a charger. As soon as possible.

So there go his options. All he can do is _stay._ Stay in his current vulnerable condition, located in Jason Todd’s goddamn safehouse. The same Jason Todd who despised his very guts. The same Jason Todd who Bruce couldn’t even think about. The worst part was feeling like an exposed wound. He doesn't place any amount of trust into Jason, not really, not after all the history between them. He has no choice but to just hope that Jason won't do a 180 and decide to poison him in his sleep. He doesn't want to trust him, but he was going to have to. 

A part of him is sure these thoughts are frightening and warrant a change of plans, but the rest of him is already drifting into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this update is actually quite early for me, but i apologize for the lateness nonetheless. thank you so much for all the kudos, comments, and bookmarks on the last chapter, they were lovely to read! i hope this chapter strikes your fancy.
> 
> if you're looking for some reading music, this song has kept me alive for the last week: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhdtdUljThU
> 
> if the next update takes too long, i might just start posting shorter snippets as chapters. i'm beginning my first year of uni in september, so let's hope time management kicks me into gear. 
> 
> thank you for reading, and i hope you all enjoy!

“Here.”

Tim is barely awake when a McDonalds paper bag lands in front of him. He blinks the sleep away until it fades to a dull ache behind his eyes, and it only takes a second for his current predicament to come back to him in a wave of anxiety and annoyance.

The bag smells really good though, so he reaches for it.

Jason is at the crates, bent over one of the laptops. He’s not dressed in his Red Hood gear, but a pair of jeans and a hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head. He thinks the _pat pat_ sound is Jason’s fingers on the keyboard, but he realizes that it’s still raining, the droplets hammering down on the warehouse roof like drum beats. Welcome to Gotham.

Tim pulls a McMuffin out of the bag, taking a tentative bite. Not poisoned. His stomach is pleased, so he wolfs down the whole thing in about twenty seconds, and attacks the fries next. There’s even a little milk carton in there, god fucking bless Jason Todd.

Wait. No. God not fucking bless Jason Todd.

Tim swallows the cholesterol down and clears his throat. “So what’s happening?”

“Hm?”

“I mean, what are we doing?”

“Well, I thought we were dating, but you just _had_ to go and fuck Jessica behind my back, so it’s over now.” There is no humour in Jason’s voice.

Tim grits his teeth, his face heating up slightly. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m not making you stay here. I told you to leave.”

“…I know.”

“That was hilarious.”

“You haven’t kicked me out, though,” Tim points out quickly. Maybe he was just keeping him here to mock him.

“That I haven’t,” Jason says, pulling his hoodie up and over his head. He’s wearing a tight black shirt underneath, and his muscles quiver under the fabric. Tim tries to convince himself he could still take him on in a fight.

“So what? Just tell it to me straight: if you want me out, I’ll leave right now. Really, I’ll manage.” Manage through the pain, he could do. Manage through Jason’s dodging of the question was another matter.

The boy – no, man, he’s pretty much a man, isn’t he? – shrugs into a black jacket. He walks past Tim, snatching the empty McDonalds back up on his way. _How nice. Murder? Violence? No problem. Littering? Never._

Jason’s very careful not to look at Tim. “You may as well save yourself the trouble,” he calls behind him. Something is off in his voice, but Tim isn’t quite sure what it is. “Just make sure Bruce doesn’t come looking here; I’m running out of spots that you fuckers haven’t ruined.”

Tim is very confused, but he nods. “Okay.”

“I’ll be back soon.” The door closes behind him.

“Okay,” Tim says, again, to no one in particular. He feels stupid for some reason, and then he realizes that he forgot to ask for a charger.

* * *

He finds one later, much later, and plugs his phone in. He waits by it, and once it’s reached an okay zone, he texts his dad. It should be worrying how easy weaving lies has come to him. Sometimes it’ll happen randomly, and he’ll find himself whipping up a falsehood just for the fun of it, instead of as a necessary precaution. Just another thing to add to the growing list of Things That Aren’t Normal But That Tim’s Too Lazy To Deal with, wedged in between ‘insomnia’ and ‘insatiable taste for snack foods and nothing else’.

He’s sort of surprised to see a barrage of texts from Cass, of all people.

_Hey. Where are you_

_??????_

_Text me back_

_Im going to assume your super busy_

_youre_

_Text me when you can_

They range from the day before to a few hours ago. He texts her back.

_hey yeah sorry super busy, what do you need?_

He hadn’t really expected Bruce to contact him or anything; he tends to trust Tim a lot more than he should. Tim’s always acted either a little too old for his age or a little too young for his age, and Bruce tends to focus on the former. Still. Would’ve been nice.

His phone pings, twice. The first is his dad, who tells him to be careful, to be smart. Tim texts him _okay._ The second is from Cass.

_Where are you. I have info for who you were looking for, sending the death threatts_

Tim raises an eyebrow.

 _it’s cool, i got him already._ Or someone had, anyways. _thanks though._

She responds quickly. _Are you ok._

_i’m totally fine, just been really swamped lately. i’ll see you soon_

She says _Dont do anything dumb._

 _gotcha_ Tim replies.

He checks that off his mental to-do list, and sighs when he realizes that there’s not much else he can do. He’s already slept away all the sleep in him (or a lot of it, because he’s never really quite awake), and Jason is gone. He feels a bit like a housewife, waiting around for him to come back, and that realization annoys him considerably.

There’s a small wall mirror on the adjacent wall, right above an off-white sink, and Tim makes his way over to it, careful to keep his movements to slow, steady strides. As long as his breathing matches that rate, for the most part, he’s as good as gold. Well, maybe not _gold_ gold. As good as fake gold from Claire’s.

Tim splashes his face with water, gasping at the cold that shocks him into another dimension practically. His reflection meets his gaze; he’s seen better days. The bags under his eyes are still as stark as ever, their ash contrasting with the paleness of his skin, except where his cheekbones swoop in with their own shadows to cut across his face and under his jaw like blades. The t shirt hangs off him, only serving to promote the malnourished college student look that Tim tries not to strive for but somehow always manages to nail. He lifts his eyebrows. Blinks hard. Sticks his tongue out.

He seems to be all there. Physically, at least.

His fingers tentatively lift up the hem of the shirt, and he winces when he sees the gash along his left side. It’s deep, but not as deep as he’d thought, though twice as long, starting out feather light just above his hip bone, and culminating into an angry red line that only fades halfway up his rib cage. And holding the damaged skin together is Jason’s handiwork: black stitches that criss-cross over the wound like railroad tracks installed by a considerably drunk engineer. Tim presses his fingers to them lightly. They’re messy, but they’re pretty firm. He vaguely wonders how many times Jason’s done this, and it hits him that most of his practice probably comes from stitching himself up after altercations, in dark, quiet safehouses just like this one.

 _Sounds lonely as shit,_ His Brain says. _I’d feel bad if he wasn’t, you know, kind of evil._

_Life is lonely. Might as well get used to it._

_Woah. His broodiness is really rubbing off on you, huh?_

Something out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he turns his head to see a dark-coloured shape on one of the laptop screens, flashing in and out of sight. He frowns curiously, moving to get a closer look.

The screen is tapped into a camera at an odd angle, offering a wide view of an intersection on a street, enough to showcase the stores on either side of the street as well. Periodically, it shifts to another view, which Tim deduces is the same intersection from the opposite side. _Huh._ And, there it is, a man in a large blue baseball cap racing across one of the streets. Something beeps on Jason’s computer. The screen shifts, and Tim leans closer. When it returns to the previous perspective, he sees that the man is pacing back and forth along the sidewalk. He stops, his chest heaving, and then races back across the walkway. The beeping stops. Tim realizes that his heart is beating faster. The man looks familiar, but he can’t quite place his finger on it. He’s still squinting when the man disappears, out of the camera’s sight.

_Damn._

Tim frowns, his eyebrows furrowing as he trails his eyes over the wall covered with photos, maps, and notes. He isn’t quite sure what Jason’s playing at, but he can recognize that beeping sound from a mile away: different Jason, same Bruce-approved facial recognition software technology. If this is someone whose facial features he’d already inputted into his database, Tim is certain the same face would be—

Ha. Bingo.

Near the lower left, Tim finds the man from the footage, the same blue cap on his head. The photograph reveals a few more details: a narrow nose, thick eyebrows, and scruffy red beard which he hadn’t been sporting in the footage. Not to mention the thorny rose tattoo coiling around his neck like a snake, crawling up his right side before resting behind his ear. The note next to him reads ASAP – IMPORTANT! Despite everything, Tim feels a smidgen of pride at having caught the man, and his location at the time.

_No._

He catches that pride and steps on it, squishes it under his metaphorical boot. No. He’s not here for long-term stay. He’s not here to help out Jason Todd, Red Hood, of all people. He’d consider himself unlucky if his stay extends past a week, tops. Maybe two. But, fuck, he’s not going to let himself be involved with his stupid endeavours. He knows that, in the end, it’ll just mean he’ll have to see himself as an accomplice to murder. That’s just the Jason Todd way.

Nope. He has this knowledge, and by golly, he is going to keep it with him. Jason will never know, and he’ll be all the better for it. Really, Tim is 100% sure that—

The door swings open. Jason says, “Fuck, when will these assholes—“

“Ifoundthatguy,” Tim blurts.

He hates himself.

Jason sets his bag down carefully and kicks the door closed, eyes trained on Tim the entire time. He’s eyeing him like he’s lost his mind a little bit, which Tim totally understands, because he kind of has lost his mind a little bit.

“What.” His voice is flat.

“That guy. _This_ guy.” Tim points a finger at the photo, and delights when Jason’s eyes widen. “I found him on one of your screens, on the intersection along that row of shops near Square Market.”

He’s barely finished his sentence when Jason speeds over to where he is, perusing the screen carefully. “Are you serious?” he murmurs. “I was so off.”

Tim swallows. He tries not to think about the man’s face being crushed under Jason’s foot. Or whatever it is that he does. “What do you want from him anyways?”

“None of your business, Drake.”

“No.” Tim’s eyes narrow. Something in his chest shifts, and his stomach fills with nausea. He swallows hard. “I’m not going to let you cause another unjust death.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” It comes out halfway between a sneer and a laugh.

“I _mean,_ ” he starts, clenching his hands into fists. “I’m not going to let you go out and kill someone without letting them undergo a fair trial. You can’t just go around shooting people whenever you see fit.”

“Really? And you’re gonna stop me?”

“I’m not going to tell you shit about what I saw. Not what he was doing, where he went. Not even how he’s changed. Not if that’s your plan.” He squares his shoulders, but he still feels much too aware of his smaller frame. Jason could probably consume him.

“Oh, it’s not, Drake, it’s really not. My real plan is to invite him in for some tea. Do you think you can bring the biscuits? I like raisin.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Raisin.”

“I swear to god—“

All amusement drops from Jason’s face, replaced with the steely coldness that Tim feels much more comfortable seeing. He says, “That’s my decision to make, Drake.”

“It’s _not._ ” Tim grits his teeth, sitting on the crate. Great. Smaller. “That’s why we have the law! That’s why we don’t have everyone taking it into their own hands. It would be chaotic.”

“Good thing I’m the only one with the balls to do it, then.”

“That’s hilarious, it really is.”

There are flames flying between their eyes, Jason leering down at Tim, who glares right back up at him. Tim is reminded, right then and there, of what an imbecile he is. Giving up that information, without thinking? He could’ve endangered someone’s life! And for what? To show off? To prove to Jason that, despite what he believed, he really did deserve to be Robin? That Robin isn’t a title reserved for the last Boy Wonder to end up in a Lazarus Pit? That he could best him?

Tim thinks they can go on forever, shooting sparks through their eyes at each other like bullets. But he doesn’t have time for that, so he decides to be the Better One. “Listen, I’ll make a deal with you.”

The taller man furrows his eyebrows deeper.

“As long as you … as long as you promise you won’t rush into murdering this man, and tell me what you want with him … I’ll show you what I saw. I’ll even help you out.”

Jason snorts at that.

“I’m serious. This is something I can do.” This is all he can do, pretty much.

“I don’t need your help. I’ve got it.”

Tim shrugs. “Okay. Then you don’t need my information. It’s a good thing you’ve been recording these tapes, right?”

He says nothing.

Tim suppresses a smirk. “Right?”

“Shut up.”

 _HA!_ “Really? That sucks, Jason, it really does.”

He stifles, setting his jaw and averting his eyes. Tim would feel bad, if he didn’t feel so _cool._

_Jason: **1**_

_Tim: **1**_

“Fine,” Jason mutters. “I can’t promise I won’t break a few of his limbs, though.”

The fact that he feels so elated at that statement is probably a little depressing. “Good. Deal. We have a deal.” He thinks about holding his hand out to shake on it, but Jason’s already glued his eyes to one of the screens. He punches in a few words and then slams the lid down. He’s very careful to avoid Tim’s gaze as he storms over to a pile off to the left, with files upon files layered amongst the floor.

Tim sighs. One thing he’s learned over the years is that there’s no such thing as a decision that’s completely right. Every choice has consequences, web-thin strings that tap into scenarios and effects that even he can’t always predict. He just hopes this one doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass.


End file.
